The Marsh King's Daughter(22)

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THE CAKE BY ITSELF would have been more than enough. But the day wasn’t over. In a rare demonstration of what I assume only in hindsight was motherly affection, my mother made me a doll. She stuffed one of my old baby sleepers with dried cattail rushes, poked five twigs into each sleeve for fingers and tied them in place with a piece of string, and fashioned a head by drawing a lopsided smiley face with a lump of charcoal on one of my father’s old socks. And yes, the doll was as ugly as it sounds.

“What is it?” I asked when she laid it on the table in front of me as I licked the last cake crumbs from my plate.

“It’s a doll,” she said shyly. “I made it. For you.”

“A doll.” I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d heard the word. “What’s it for?”

“You . . . play with it. Give it a name. Pretend it’s a baby and you’re its mother.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. I was very good at pretending, but imagining myself as the mother of this lifeless lump was beyond me. Thankfully my father found the concept just as ridiculous. He burst out laughing, and that made me feel better.

“Come, Helena.” He pushed back from the table and held out his hand. “I have a present for you, too.”

My father led me into my parents’ bedroom. He lifted me onto their high bed. My legs dangled off the edge. Normally I wasn’t allowed in their room, so I swung my feet in happy anticipation as my father got down on his hands and knees. He reached under the bed and pulled out a brown leather case with a brown handle and shiny gold trim. I could tell the case was heavy because he grunted as he lifted it, and when he plopped it down on the bed next to me, the bed bounced and jiggled like it did when I jumped on it, though I wasn’t supposed to. My father selected the smallest key from his key ring and inserted it into the lock. The latch sprang open—thwang. He lifted the lid and turned the case so I could see inside.

I gasped.

The case was full of knives. Long ones. Short ones. Skinny ones. Fat ones. Knives with wooden handles. Knives with carved bone handles. Folding knives. Curved knives that looked like swords. Later my father taught me their names and the differences between them and how to use each one for hunting or combat or self-defense, but at the time all I knew was that I itched to touch them. I wanted to run my fingers over every one. Feel the coldness of the metal, the smoothness of the wood, the sharpness of each blade.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Pick one. You’re a big girl now. Old enough to carry a knife of your own.”

Instantly my insides burned as hot as the fire in our woodstove. I’d wanted a knife for as long as I could remember. I had no idea such treasure lay beneath my parents’ bed. Or that my father would one day share a piece of his treasure with me. I glanced toward the doorway. My mother’s arms were crossed over her chest and she was frowning, so I could tell she didn’t like the idea. When I helped her in the kitchen, I wasn’t allowed to touch anything sharp. I looked again to my father, and suddenly, in a burst of insight, I realized I didn’t have to listen to my mother. Not anymore. Not when my father said I was old enough to have my own knife.

I turned back to the case. Looked over each knife carefully twice. “That one.” I pointed to a knife with a gold-colored hilt and a shiny dark wood handle. I especially liked the raised leaf design on the knife’s leather sheath. It wasn’t a small knife, because even though my father said I was a big girl I knew I would grow bigger still, and I wanted a knife I could grow into, not one I’d grow out of, like the pile of discarded shirts and overalls in a corner of my bedroom.

“Excellent choice.” My father held out what I now know is an eight-inch double-sided Bowie knife like a king presenting a knight with a sword. I started to reach for it, then stopped. My father had this game he liked to play where he pretended to give me something and when I tried to take it, he snatched it away. I didn’t think I could bear it if he was playing now. He smiled and nodded encouragingly as I hesitated. This was also sometimes part of the game.

But I wanted that knife. I needed that knife. Quickly, I grabbed it before he could react. I closed my fist around it and hid the knife behind my back. I’d fight him for it if I had to.

My father laughed. “It’s okay, Helena. Really. The knife is yours.”

Slowly I brought the knife out from behind me, and when his smile got bigger and his hands stayed by his sides, I knew that this beautiful knife was indeed mine. I slid the knife from its cover, turned it over in my hands, held it up to the light, laid it across my knees. The weight of the knife, the size and the shape and the feel told me I’d made the right choice. I ran my thumb along one edge to test its sharpness like I’d seen my father do. The knife drew blood. It didn’t hurt. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and looked again toward the doorway. My mother was gone.

My father locked the case and slid it back under the bed. “Get your coat. We’ll go check the snare line.”

How I loved him—and his invitation made me love him all the more. My father checked his snare line every morning. It was now late afternoon. That he would go out a second time just so I could try out my new knife made my heart explode. I would kill for this man. I would die for him. And I knew he would do the same for me.

Quickly I put on my winter gear before he changed his mind, then slipped my knife in my coat pocket. The knife bumped against my leg as I walked. Our snare line ran the length of our ridge. The snow on either side of the trail was almost as tall as me, so I matched my father’s footsteps closely. We wouldn’t go far. Already the sky and trees and snow were turning evening blue. Ningaabi-Anang glittered low in the west. I offered a prayer to the Great Spirit to please please please send a rabbit before we had to turn back.